


the blood of angry men

by glitterforplaster (ineffableangel)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Near Death Experiences, Reapers, anthropomorphic death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableangel/pseuds/glitterforplaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look,” Bahorel had said yesterday afternoon, one leg swung haphazardly over the arm of Courf’s ratty couch, sunlight casting dappled patterns on his tan skin. “Look, it’s not so bad. Just, you know, think of it less like illegal underground street-fighting, and more like morally-ambiguous wrestling.”</p><p>(reaper enjolras au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the blood of angry men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryssabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/gifts).



> blame ryssa, because when i told her that this was going to be very sad, she said ”do it anyway.” twice.

This is a _terrible_ idea.

It’s true that Courfeyrac has had some terrible ideas before, but _this_ — this is likely to get them killed. Twice. And _brutally_.

(“Look,” Bahorel had said yesterday afternoon, one leg swung haphazardly over the arm of Courf’s ratty couch, sunlight casting dappled patterns on his tan skin. “Look, it’s not so bad. Just, you know, think of it less like illegal underground street-fighting, and more like morally-ambiguous wrestling.”

“In a dimly-lit arena,” Courf supplied helpfully.

Bahorel nodded. “For extremely high stakes.”)

Grantaire’s boots kick up dust as they walk. Before them looms a warehouse that probably doesn’t house much anymore, except perhaps their collective dooms. Its walls are covered in peeling paint, and the front in red-brown stains that Grantaire tries very hard not to think about.

It doesn’t have a sign — not that he’d really been expecting one, since this is more than slightly illegal — but he’s been told it’s called the Patron-Minette by those who frequently haunt it. No one was quite sure when it opened, or if people just sort of showed up like guests to a Gatsby party, but its services were always shut down at dawn.

(“It’s ‘cause they’ve got this huge lower floor, right,” Bahorel had explained of the location, “and it fits a huge crowd, and there’s a fenced-in bit where the fighting goes. Plus there’s almost no one ‘round the neighborhood, so we don’t have to worry about getting caught.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” said Grantaire with distaste. “No one to hear us scream.”)

Once they’re inside the building, Bahorel leads them towards the arena, shouldering through the front doors, pushing past crowds of bystanders, nodding everytime he sees a familiar face. Grantaire has long wondered whether he used to belong to a gang, and this is not helping that particular speculation.

“Where are we going?” Courf asks, trying to strike a balance between not drawing attention to their little group and being heard over the roar of the arena. “Bahorel!” he cries when he begins to lose sight of him, reaching out a hand to catch the back of Bahorel’s shirt. “Hey, would you _listen_ for a second? Where are we _going?_ ”

“Behind there,” Bahorel explains, nearly shouting now. He points to a door marked _No Admittance_ , and everyone else lets out a collective weary sigh. “I know a guy,” he says sheepishly. “It’ll be fine.”

Grantaire curses under his breath, and tries to quiet the whispers in his head; _We’re going to die here, aren’t we? Oh, god, we’re going to die here._

(Grantaire had sighed heavily from the floor several times throughout this discussion, and finally said, ”Oh, alright, I’m in. You only live once, right?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Bahorel, who is a very unhelpful Buddhist.)

The door isn’t even locked, they find when Bahorel jerks on the handle, expecting resistance but receiving none. “Oh,” he says, and pulls it open, looking slightly worried that a place like _this_ wouldn’t lock their staff entrances.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, and the hall is drowned in sudden silence, the crowds outside now only a faint hiss of noise.

“What now?” Combeferre asks, always the practical one, and the others are surprised to remember that he’s there; he hasn’t said a word since they arrived.

(“There are rules,” Courf had informed them, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. The other held a cigarette that hadn’t been touched in twenty minutes. “Even on the betting.”

Combeferre’s head jerked up, making his glasses to slip down his nose. “The _what?_ ” He’d asked slowly, his voice laced with a frosty and forced calm.

Courf looked embarrassed. “The, um, you know. The betting.”

“I’m coming with you,” Combeferre had declared, “if only to make sure you live to see next week.”)

Another door opens to the side of the hall, and a dark-haired figure steps out into the light. It’s a man, but he’s slight enough to be a boy, and his dark clothes only accentuate his pale skin and full lips.

He glares at them, his eyes skidding across their faces, until he reaches Bahorel’s. “What are _you_ doing here?” he demands, but he doesn’t seem angry— rather, the question is casual and disinterested. “Thought I kicked you out.”

“Montparnasse!” Bahorel exclaims happily, ignoring this last statement, instead clapping a huge brown hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good to see you!”

“I wish I could say the same,” says Montparnasse, but he looks pleased, anyhow. “But last time you were here, you nearly killed Claquesous— which neither he nor I appreciated.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Bahorel shrugs. “I did tell him I was sorry he’d lost. It was a good fight, and he was a good challenge.”

Montparnasse smiles at that, the corners of his mouth curving, sly and sinister in a way that makes you want to know him. “I’ll tell him again, but I doubt it will help.” He looks past Bahorel to his friends, raising an eyebrow. “You fighting tonight?”

All at once, Bahorel seems aware that he’s been carrying on for a while, and waves a hand, suddenly serious. “No, they’re not, and neither am I. You’ll make sure they don’t get into the ring.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” Montparnasse relents, giving them one more glance-over. “Shame, though. Great arms on that one.”

Grantaire flushes, but does not let his expression change.

Montparnasse seems pleased at that, but shoos them from the staff area, pushing them back out into the heat and the sound and the crowd. “Fighting’s starting soon,” he informs them, closing the door behind him. “Better find a good place to stand.”

 

 

*

 

 

As it turns out, there _is_ no good place to stand.

The whole arena is full of people, packed in and pushed against each other like sardines in a can, and Grantaire, for one, is feeling more or less entirely suffocated.

“Remind me why we agreed to this,” he pleads, grasping for some reassurance that he’d once been sane.

Combeferre pats his arm completely unhelpfully and tells him, “I haven’t the faintest.”

Grantaire groans, partly because Combeferre is useless and partly because someone just elbowed him in the ribs.

“Look at it this way,” says ‘Ferre, “at least Joly isn’t here.”

Grantaire is suddenly struck with the image of a frightened and claustrophobic Joly trying to bandage everyone in sight, simultaneously panicking over the lack of health certificates and the criminal purposes of the gathering.

“Oh, _God_ ,” breathes Grantaire, and is only just thanking the universe for its small miracles when his attention is directed elsewhere, towards the blood-curdling scream from inside the fenced-in section of the arena, and the violent brawl that has warranted it.

It’s not legal in any sense of the word for an arm to bend like that in someone else’s hands, and Grantaire has to look away, has to _get away_ , has to _go somewhere_ , somewhere else, _anywhere else—_  before he throws up.

“R!” Courfeyrac calls after him, pushing past bystanders who don’t look at all bothered by the recent turn of events, but Grantaire is already too far away for him to catch up.

Grantaire slides in and out of openings in the crowd, cutting through the— the _audience_ — and that word makes him feel even worse — like a knife through water, pushing forward until he pops through the final crack in the armor of people, sucking in clean, cool air.

He feels dizzy, and sick, and nauseous. He leans against the side of the building, pressing fingers to the inside of his wrist to touch his frantic pulse, breathing in until it slows enough to be safe. His lungs are on fire, and his hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat.

He wonders if that’s what a panic attack feels like, and decides that, no, it’s not. (It is.)

“That was _awful_ ,” he says aloud, brushing his sweaty palms on his jeans. “ _God_ , why did I agree to this,” he repeats, but it’s not longer a question— more, now, just a remark of complete disbelief.

“R!”

Grantaire glances up, and finds Courfeyrac’s worried face in front of him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, putting a steadying hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire relaxes at his touch, the tension leaves him, loosening as though he’d previously been a coiled spring.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you want to go back inside, or...?” Courf starts. It doesn’t seem like he expects the answer to be a yes, so he’s surprised when Grantaire nods.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Sorry, I just— I don’t know why that happened.”

“Okay,” Courf says quietly. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he insists, pulling away from Courf’s grasp and back towards the doors. “Let’s go.”

 

 

*

 

Grantaire regrets his decision as soon as they reenter. It’s no less crowded inside, and, in fact, seems to have actually gotten louder since they left.

It takes them a moment to find Bahorel and Combeferre, who are not where they left them, but rather farther ahead, pressed up against the chainlink fence of the arena’s wrestling ring, their fingers reaching through the chinks. They’re shouting something, their mouths moving in sync, but it’s only when they’re closer that Grantaire realizes what it is: _fight, fight, fight!_ over and over.

“Looks like they’re really getting into it,” Courf says in his ear, his breath uncomfortably hot in the already stifling warmth of the warehouse. He’s evidently shocked that even Combeferre has taken to this, but he hides it well, and it’s only because Grantaire knows him that he can see it.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, feeling sick and strange again. “Courf, hey, I think— I think I’m going to stand in the back, if that’s alright, I’m— this isn’t—” he breaks off, unsure how to explain, but Courfeyrac is already nodding. “Thanks,” he says, more softly, and starts to move away.

“Be safe!” Courf calls, and Grantaire shoots him a thumbs up and a shaky smile before he goes.

 

 

*

 

It turns out — much to Grantaire’s simultaneous relief and disappointment — that the arena has an open keg.

He promises himself that he won’t have any, won’t drink at all, but he sits down at one of the tables all the same.

“Can I sit here?” someone asks after he’s been there for an hour, laying a hand on the table to attract Grantaire’s attention.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, waving a hand at the chair across from him, finally glancing up at the person in question.

And, Grantaire decides, it’s definitely okay for him to sit here, because this guy is _gorgeous_.

The red is the first thing Grantaire sees; the vest he wears is crimson like blood, with brass buttons, and his jeans are dark, like the shirt collar turned up around his throat. He wears a watch on his left wrist, an ancient and heavy monstrosity that looks as though it belongs in the last century. Blonde hair falls in soft waves around his ears, like a halo, but the turn of his mouth is sadder than any angel’s could be.

If Grantaire were to paint him, he’d bring him to life with deep reds and sunny oranges, shimmering golds and burnt coppers. How he wishes he had his sketchbook with him, even just to capture the clench of the man’s jaw, or the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones.

He looks like a sunset, perhaps, or a dying star— a beautiful view, but one that inevitably gives way to darkness.

He seems surprised that Grantaire had answered to his question — the expression sits almost too well on his beautiful face — and Grantaire flushes when he realizes that everyone around him is drunk, and this... this _Greek god_ had probably assumed that he was, too.

The man pulls the chair out from under the table and turns it around, sitting down with his legs — which are great in those jeans, and go on for miles -- on either side of the back of the chair. “Hello,” he says, and his smile is radiant, and not unlike that of Montparnasse, from before.

“Hello,” Grantaire says back, trying to sound easy and disaffected. “I’m Grantaire.”

“Enjolras,” the angel tells him, but does not extend a hand, so neither does Grantaire.

“You’re not drunk,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire cringes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— it’s just that you seem to be the only one.”

“Oh, I know.” Grantaire sighs, returning what he hopes is an equally bright smile and leaning forward with his elbows on the tabletop. “I seem to be the only not enjoying himself, too.”

“What a shame,” comes the reply, although the smile is still there. “Whyever not?”

Grantaire finds himself retelling the events of the night, and those that lead up to it. Enjolras listens with rapt fascination; he looks as though this is the first conversation he’s had in years.

“Well,” he says finally, when Grantaire has finished. “Those are certainly unique circumstances. You’re a very good storyteller, did you know?” Enjolras tilts his head, his eyes appraising Grantaire like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, shifting in his seat under the sharp gaze of Heaven. It makes him feel shivery and strange, but it’s different from how he was earlier. It’s actually... _nice_.

Enjolras looks at him for a long moment, chewing on his lower lip as though he’s deciding something. “Grantaire,” he says quietly, suddenly serious. His hand hovers over Grantaire’s forearm, like he wants to touch him but can’t bring himself to. “You need to leave.”

Grantaire frowns. “What?”

“You need to _leave_ ,” Enjolras repeats. “ _Now_.”

Is Grantaire bothering him, somehow? Has he done something, said something wrong? He can’t think of what it might have been. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you. You just have to trust me on this one. Go home. Just— go home. _Please_ ,” he adds, and it’s that _please_ that gets Grantaire in the end; it sounds far too desperate for his liking.

“Alright,” he says reluctantly, standing up. “Alright, fine, I’ll go home.”

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” Enjolras says softly, not meeting his eyes. “I’m actually... actually trying to protect you.”

Grantaire bites down on the affrontation rising in his throat, and forces a smile instead. “Well, then, the least I could do is give you something in return.”

He brandishes a felt-tip marker, having suddenly remembered he had one in his pocket only a moment before. He reaches forward for Enjolras, and Enjolras flinches, then seems surprised at the gentle, calloused fingers circled around his wrist like a bracelet. Grantaire turns Enjolras’ hand over, palm up, uncaps the marker with his teeth, and begins to drag the tip across Enjolras’ skin. The lines blur slightly as he works, and the overall effect is not as clean as he’d like, but he’s pressed for time and his hand is shaking with nerves— so it’s good enough.

He can feel Enjolras’ eyes watching him write, his head bent and his dark curls falling into his eyes, and when he’s done he glances up at him through his eyelashes and smiles.

“My number,” he says, by way of answer to Enjolras’ silent question. “In case you’d like to protect me some more, some other time. Or hurt me," he adds, tucking away the marker. “That would be fine, too.”

Enjolras flushes hotly, turning red.

Grantaire decides he _definitely_ likes that colour on him, and wiggles his fingers in a sort of half-wave before he disappears into the dark.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Later, Grantaire learns that one of the men in the Patron-Minette that night had gotten drunk and been pushed into the ring, only to find himself facing a much better fighter than himself.

He's dead, now.

That could have been Grantaire. All he can think of is Enjolras, saying softly, _“I’m actually trying to protect you.”_


End file.
